


Making an Entrance

by mnemosyne



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 06:43:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnemosyne/pseuds/mnemosyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For prompt fenris/zevran "unbind me".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making an Entrance

“For an assassin as skilled as myself,” Zevran remarks conversationally, from where he is slowly swinging from side to side, hung upside down over a chasm, “it is somewhat embarrassing that I should find myself in such need of rescue.” He hums quietly. “Again,” he adds, after a moment.

Fenris harrumphs low in his throat, and ignores him, tracing back the complicated system of pulleys and levers which lead from where the elf he’s just come across – who had cheerily introduced himself as Zevran Arainai, and would you lend a fellow a hand? – is tied to the platform Fenris finds himself standing on. He has half a mind to leave, head back down the tunnel to find where he left Hawke and the others, but the rope holding Zevran up from what is definitely, unquestionably, certain death, appears rather too flimsy to abandon for all that long. So he runs his hands over knots and starts counting down from ten in his head.

“Of course,” Zevran continues with a blithe chuckle, ignoring the being ignored, “If I were not in my current state of mild distress, I would perhaps not have found myself rescued by a handsome stranger. That is you, by the way, I am presuming your success with whatever it is you are endeavouring to do with that coil in your hands.”

Fenris grunts, and digs his fingers firmly underneath the rope. He tugs once, hard. “For someone in mortal danger,” he says, “you seem to be rather cheerful about it.”

The cocoon that is Zevran Arainai wiggles slightly, in what Fenris can only assume is an attempt at a shrug. “If I got myself all worked up every time my life was in danger, I would have significantly more grey hairs on my head.” He laughs. “It would be as white as yours, my friend.”

The rope in Fenris’ hands loosens slightly, and he is able to hoist it up over his shoulder. Carefully, he starts winding one of the levers, and in a series of shuddering jerks, the trussed elf is brought back onto solid ground, where Fenris lets him drop, with a surprisingly heavy thud, before unhurriedly stepping over to release him from his bonds.

“Forgive me,” says Zevran into the ground, where his face has landed, “I am usually much more suave than this when making a new acquaintance. I fear vengeful lords with too much time on their hands are not always as much fun as they might first sound.”

“If it is any consolation,” Fenris replies, “you have at least made quite the first impression.”

Zevran laughs then, and pushes himself from the ground with the hands that Fenris has just freed. He kicks the last of the rope from his ankles, and holds out a hand.

“That, my fair rescuer,” he says, as Fenris takes it, “is always a given.”


End file.
